


Littlest brother, Youngest son

by GilliganGoodfellow



Series: Jaskier’s Monster [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eskel and Lambert can not be trusted with aard, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Found Family, Gilligan tries to translate Elder, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, She probably fails, Soft Lambert, What is this canon of which you speak, pappa vesemir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-18 21:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilliganGoodfellow/pseuds/GilliganGoodfellow
Summary: When Jaskier, feverish from a endrega attack, calls Vesemir father, Geralt responds with an amused smile.Geralt's smile changes to fond when Vesemir doesn't correct the bard.--OR the obligatory "Jaskier get's hurt on the road" fic that the fandom totally doesn't have enough of yet
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion & Triss Merigold
Series: Jaskier’s Monster [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1606360
Comments: 113
Kudos: 987
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Prologue

Marcus looks up as the door to his shop opens. 

The young man who enters is dressed in Skellige furs, so different from his usual attire that Marcus almost doesn’t recognise him. 

“Jaskier?” He says, standing from his chair. “Welcome back to the mainland.”

“Thank you, Master Hodgson. It’s good to be back.” Jaskier smiles, looking around the shop. “How’s business?”

“Good. Very good.”

“Um...anything for me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Letter arrived around a week ago.”

Jaskier’s face lights up as he takes the letter from Marcus, opening it there and then and starting to read. The emotions on his face are a story in themselves as his eyes lose their shine, scanning through the letter once, then twice. By the end, he is solemn. “Was there anything else?”

“Afraid not. Is...everything alright?”

“Yes.” Jaskier plasters the smile back on his face. “A letter from my father. I wrote to him before leaving. I...well, foolish of me to think he would be happy for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. At least he bothered to write at all. Thank you for receiving it for me.” He passes a coin to the shopkeeper.

“Time for a round of gwent before you leave? Might cheer you up.”

“No, I learned my lesson about playing you last time.” Jaskier smiles. “But thank you. Geralt’s waiting for me. Keep well.”

“And you, Jaskier. Say hello to the Witcher for me.” 

Marcus watches through the window as the bard stands there for a moment on the street, looking up at the sky and clearly composing himself before making his way over to the Kingfisher Inn.


	2. Father?

The room smells of death. 

It smells of sweat and fear and sickness. And death.

Geralt sits by the bed, anger born from helplessness coursing through him as he grips a pale...far too pale...hand within his own. His other hand rests against the younger man’s chest, feeling the heartbeat, thready and weak but THERE. Beating. For now.

Because the room smells of death and Geralt can’t ignore it.

Jaskier had been so alive just hours ago.

* * *

The Witcher looks up as the door to The Kingfisher opens, and smiles. 

Finally.

He waits for Jaskier to make eye contact, the bard returning the smile before approaching the Witcher. There is a moment of hesitation, Jaskier’s arms open and Geralt’s hand extends to shake. Then Geralt rolls his eyes, and opens his arms as well 

“How was Skellige?” He says as they hug.

“Cold.” Jaskier says, quickly. “Full of wolves, and BRILLIANT.” He laughs as he sits down, accepting the drink that the barmaid brings over, Geralt having ordered it earlier. 

“The journey was horrendous.” Jaskier says, pausing to sip the drink. “Turns out I suffer from something called seasickness, chief symptom being puking day and night over the edge of the ship.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“Arriving, day one I met a Skald with the delightful name of Draig Bon-Dhu, and he told me everything about the history of the islands. So many stories, Geralt. And then we arrived at the Hall. Have you ever seen the Clan Tuirseach Hall?”

“No.”

“GO. Soon as you can.” Jaskier looks away, almost dreamily. “I don’t think I will ever stand in a place grander. I nearly ran off when I saw it. I mean, ME, performing THERE? ME?” 

Geralt nods as he quietly enjoys Jaskier’s joy.

“It already feels like a dream.” Jaskier reaches into his bag, pulling out a sheepskin wrapped package. “I got you something. It’s not much, but...I found a blacksmith in Urialla Harbor.”

Geralt nods quietly as he unwraps the package, finding himself looking at a small dagger, the scabbard decorated with runes. He pulls it out to find a fine silver blade.”

Jaskier looks back in his bag. “I got one for each of the witchers.” He holds up another parcel. “I got Eskel a steel one because I know he already has a silver one. Not much point having two of the same thing.” He puts the parcel back in his bag. “Do you think...I mean, do you think they’ll like them?”

Geralt nods. “Eist Tuirseach paid that well?”

“Almost twice more than we originally agreed.” Jaskier giggles with excitement. Actually giggles. “He insisted.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt nods. 

Jaskier waits a moment, and then clears his throat, calming down. Geralt can’t help but think that the bard, for a moment, looks upset. 

“So when do we eat? Are we eating here?”

“If you’re hungry.” Geralt says. “Vesemir and the others are meeting us at an Inn just outside the city. Seven Cats.” Geralt reaches across the table to pat Jaskier’s shoulder. “Sleep there tonight, then we travel north together.”

“I can’t wait to see Kaer Morhen again. I’ve missed the old place.”

Geralt nods.

“I saw a castle in Skellige. The Skald’s said a famous Witcher died defending it. Geld.” Jaskier looks down. “I couldn’t help thinking how much his name sounds like your name.”

“Except I see no point dying for a castle.” Geralt mutters. “They can be rebuilt.”

“Depends on the castle.” Jaskier says, smiling sadly.

* * *

The room smells of death.

Geralt tries to remember the fight, but it is a blur. 

Without thinking he reaches down, pulling the edge of Jaskier’s shirt up and studying the scratch. Such a small wound, it might not even scar.

It might kill him. 

The fight is a blur. No, it’s missing parts. The parts there are like a series of moving paintings. Roach crying out, throwing them. Jaskier lands on him. Geralt stands and grabs his sword. 

He remembers being surprised. An lone endrega warrior and so far north? No doubt having escaped from some fool “monster collector” or hunter who had probably learned his lesson in an unmarked open grave somewhere in the woods. But how it got there wasn’t important.

It was there. 

Another painting. Geralt strikes the creature. It rushes forward, knocks him down. Raises to strike. 

And Geralt can smell burning. 

Another painting. Jaskier is holding a flaming branch, swinging it left and right, getting the creature's attention away from Geralt. It charges the bard and he runs. Geralt stands, sword back in hand. 

He hears Jaskier cry out. 

Another painting. The creature screams as Geralt kills it.

Another painting. Jaskier lying on the grass, still. His clothes are torn. A scratch bleeds on his belly, puss already surrounding the wound as the venom sinks into his blood.

Just a scratch. 

Jaskier had been so alive just hours ago.

Now the room smells of sweat and fear and sickness. And death.

“Geralt, get some rest.” Vesemir sits on the opposite side of the bed, sliding his chair up so he is near Jaskier’s head. “I’ll sit with him.”

“Think I can rest now?” Geralt snaps.

As he looks up, he sees that Vesemir has rested a bowl of cool water on the bedside table, one that he is dipping a cloth into. He wrings it out, and carefully washes Jaskier’s face and forehead, at one point using his hand to run some of the moisture through his hair.

Geralt is silent, his hand still holding Jaskier’s as he watches Vesemir tend to him with all the skill one might expect of a practiced healer. Too practiced. Too practiced from the many young Witcher’s injured in training. From too many evenings spent comforting those that succumbed to the Trial of the Grasses and finally breathed their last.

Geralt looks down at Jaskier’s pale hand.

“Mmmm.” Jaskier murmurs, his eyes cracking open.

“Julian?” Vesemir rests the cloth on the bard’s forehead. “Hello.”

“Fa...father?” 

Geralt can’t help the smile it brings to his face. Part surprise, part fondness, part amusement at Jaskier’s fever induced confusion. 

Vesemir’s own smile widens, and he slides the cloth down to Jaskier’s cheek. “I’m here, my boy.”

And now Geralt’s smile is just fondness. But it fades as Jaskier’s face becomes distressed.

“I’m sorry.” The younger man cries, turning away from Vesemir. “I didn...want to diss...apoint...you. I didn’t...I’m not like Ferrant?”

“Ferrant?” Vesemir looks at Geralt. “A brother?”

Geralt shakes his head. “He’s an only child.” 

He remembers Jaskier saying how he had wished for brothers or sisters when growing up.

Vesemir looks back down. “I’m not disappointed, my boy.”

“But the letter you sent?”

“What letter?”

“Disowned...backwater taverns, singing stupid songs. Leaching of other’s success. Embarrassment.” Jaskier looks right at Vesemir. “Parasite.”

“No.” Vesemir says, firmly. “I don’t think those things about you.”

“Were you ever proud?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt tightens his hold on Jaskier’s hand.

“Did I EVER make you proud?”

Vesemir nods, using the cloth to wash tears away from Jaskier’s face.

Geralt thinks, and stands, going over to where he has stored his saddle bags in the corner of the room. It takes him a while to find the letter, almost certainly not the one that Jaskier is referring to but one that definitely changed the young man’s life. 

Geralt had kept it. He thinks he will always keep it. 

He prays to gods he’s always doubted that it isn’t the last of such letters.

As he sits back down, he thinks for a moment before handing the letter to Vesemir. 

“Vesemir, read this to him.”

The old Witcher nods, studying through the letter quickly and smiling before reading.

“Geralt of Rivia. The Mighty Witcher. Yes news of your exploits has reached us even on these forsaken shards of arthritis baiting rocks.”

Geralt huffs out a laugh. 

“I hope you’ll forgive my hubris after so long without writing, but I am to ask you a favour.” Vesemir reads. “You have a bard in your employ, one Jaskier. More than one of our sea captains have heard him sing in taverns on the mainland, and speak highly of the boy. So highly that now Jarl Eist Tuirseach wishes to enjoy the honour of a performance at his upcoming birthday feast.”

He pauses for a moment to run the cloth over Jaskier’s forehead again.

“The enclosed document guarantees payment to the ship on arrival in Skellige. Perhaps you will accompany the boy as well, my old friend. I haven’t seen you since the plague. But I understand if contracts keep you tied to the mainland. It is hunting season after all.”

Geralt closes his eyes.

“Do tell your bard at least to accept this invitation. I’m sure you know as well as I what a great opportunity this will be for him. Jarl Tuirseach’s guests are set to include the Queen of Cintra herself.”

Vesemir puts the letters to one side. “Invited to sing to a royal audience, Julian. How could I not be proud?”

Jaskier smiles, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“And you saved Geralt’s life today.” Vesemir whispers.

Geralt puts Jaskier’s hand back on the bed, and stands. 

“Geralt?”

“Need to check on Roach.”

“Lambert and Eskel stabled her. She’s fine.” Vesemir waits for Geralt to sit back down. “HE needs you now, Wolf.”

“He’s dying?”

“He’s fighting to survive.” Vesemir smiles. “And you know as well as I how good he is at that.”

Jaskier coughs, and Vesemir moves the cloth down to his chest, cleaning under the loose shirt.

Geralt picks Jaskier’s hand up again, holding it between his own and resting his forehead against the knuckles. 

_Keep fighting_ . _Please._


	3. Brothers

When Geralt wakes up the next morning, the room is empty. 

Jaskier’s bed is empty.

“Fuck.” Waking up fully, Geralt looks around, taking in the room.

No signs of struggle, but Jaskier’s lute is gone as well. The case lies empty on the floor. 

Tracks. Geralt can just make them out in the dust. Too confident to be a sick man’s pace, so Jaskier was taken by someone, and carried out of the room. 

The door behind Geralt opens to Eskel. “Geralt?”

Geralt turns to face the scarred Witcher. “Jaskier’s gone?”

“What?” Eskel looks at the empty bed. “I left Lambert in here with him.”

“Tracks on the floor.” 

Eskel nods, noticing them as well. Together they follow the footprints out a backdoor to the grounds behind the inn. There the tracks turn, and now they can both hear the lute strings being gently plucked.

“By the river.” Geralt says.

He continues to follow the tracks, stopping when he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder, Eskel placing a finger to his lips, before indicating ahead of them with a nod. 

Lambert is sitting on the river bank, looking out over the water.

Both Witchers approach slowly, taking in details as they do. Lambert is sitting on a bedroll, the lute laid beside him, and one hand idly plucking at the strings in a quiet, repetitive melody. Jaskier, meanwhile, is curled up on his side against the witcher’s lap, covered in a blanket.

“He was too warm.” Lambert says, without looking at the others. His voice is quiet, so lacking in its usual personality that it is almost a drone. “Too warm in that room. He needed air.”

“He needs to be inside.” Eskel says, kneeling down. “Cold air might make him sicker.”

“Well I never claimed to be a fucking healer.” Lambert snaps, still not making eye contact. He looks down at Jaskier, checking his temperature and gritting his teeth, before looking back out at the water.

Eskel nods, before looking up at Geralt. 

Geralt sighs. “Want me to take over?”

Lambert shakes his head.

Eskel leans towards him. “Lambert…”

“Did you know about the letter?” Lambert looks from Eskel to Geralt. He reaches down, holding up a folded letter that he hands to Geralt. “It was in his cloak.”

“You went through his pockets?” Geralt scolds.

“I needed the key to the lute case.”

Eskel shakes his head, then turns to look at Geralt as the other man visible tenses, reading through the letter.

_ If you were expecting me to be impressed, you are mistaken. While Ferrant, through his own hard work and determination, has been invited to the court of King Belohun, I must face your Uncle and say that you are still travelling from backwater tavern to backwater tavern, singing stupid songs.  _

By the last sentence, Geralt is pretty sure that the only thing that will stop him from killing Jaskier’s father will be Lambert getting there first.

_ Your leeching off this Witcher Mutant like a parasite is already as sickening as it is embarrassing. And now you tell me that you have exploited his contacts in the Skellige courts? _

Geralt’s hand is shaking with anger as he passes the letter to Eskel. 

_ Are you so inept and lazy that you are completely incapable of making your own progress in life? _

Eskel reads it through, then stands. “I need to show this to Vesemir.”

Geralt nods, stepping to one side to let the Witcher pass, then sitting down on the ground next to Lambert.

“But you don’t believe that crap.” Lambert says, almost to himself as much as to the sleeping bard. “You’re smarter than that. You know how good you are.”

Geralt nods, his face softening as Jaskier stirs.

“Hey, Jas.” Lambert says, quietly.

The bard twitches slightly, biting his lip. “Bert?”

“Yeah.” Lambert shakes his head. “Remember promising never to call me that in front of Geralt?”

Geralt laughs quietly.

Jaskier twitches again. “Feel…” He squeezes his closed eyes, and his arm twitches. “Feel strange.” This time it is as if his entire body twitches.

“Jaskier?”

Geralt shakes his head. “Lambert, lay him on the bedroll.”

“But…”

“NOW.”

Lambert and Geralt maneuver the bard onto the bedroll just in time. 

Later, Geralt thinks that it is maybe only a minute, but at the time it feels like hours as they watch Jaskier convulse, arms and legs jutting out, eyes opening and rolling up as a thin foam forms in the corner of his mouth. The same convulsions over and over. And all the time while making a strange vocal noise like a scream that can’t quite form.

Finally, FINALLY, the spell passes and his limbs calm, tears falling from his eyes as he curls up weakly onto his side.

Lambert shakes his head, resting a hand on Jaskier’s arm.

A jolt runs through Jaskier, and he whimpers. “Geralt?”

“It’s okay.” Geralt kneels down at Jaskier’s head, gently resting a finger on his chin. “Let me look at your mouth.” With a gentle pressure, he is able to move the bard’s jaw down enough to check that his airway is clear, before Jaskier slams his mouth shut and curls up even tighter, sobbing slightly as he trembles. Geralt isn’t sure if it is from cold, or fear, or both. 

The witcher can feel the heat before his hand touches Jaskier’s forehead. 

“Need to get the fever down.”

“The river?”

Geralt shakes his head. “River water’s too cold. Shock will kill him.” He gently encourages Jaskier onto his back, lifting him like a sleeping child. “Bath would work, though.”

Lambert stops only to grab the lute, before running back into the tavern.

“Where?” Jaskier mutters. 

“I’ve got you.” Geralt walks at a slower pace, mindful of his precious cargo. “I’ve got you.”

* * *

Geralt is careful as he lowers Jaskier into the bath, hands sliding up to support his head. Once the bard is settled, Geralt starts using handfuls of water to drench Jaskier’s hair and face.

“No…” Jaskier struggles as he wakes, trying to push away from the Witcher.

“Shhh.” Geralt concentrates on keeping Jaskier’s head above the water. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Drown.”

“I’m not going to drown you.” Geralt smiles. “Just need to cool you down.”

“Why?”

“You have a fever, bard. Because you decided to try and fight an endrega with a stick.”

“No....” He struggles away from Geralt, knees drawn to his chest, eyes wide. His breathing is laboured. “Don’t...I’m not...I’m not…”

“Not what?” Geralt slowly moves closer.

“Where am I?”

Geralt sighs, resting a hand on the back of Jaskier’s head. “Somewhere safe, I promise. Fever has you confused. Just listen to me.” Geralt smiles. “You’re safe.” He carries on whispering the gentle promise as he resumes applying water to Jasker’s hair, face and shoulders. “You’re safe.”

There’s so much more than Geralt wants to say to Jaskier, but not now. Not when the bard is barely coherent. 

Right now Jaskier needs things to be simple. Simple reassurances. Safety.

He needs to feel safe.

“You’re safe.”

The rest can wait until tomorrow.

There’s a gentle knock on the door, and Geralt turns to find Eskel in the doorway. 

“Ah...you’re busy.”

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asks, turning back to look at Jaskier with a reassuring smile. 

“Well, Vesemir could use your help convincing Lambert not to set off for Lettenhove.”

“Fuck.”


	4. Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I've been a LITTLE bit blown away by the reaction to this fic, and the series as a whole. Thank you for all the lovely kudos and comments :'-}

“You don’t want to do this, Lambert.”

“I think I’m the expert on what I fucking want, Geralt.” Lambert sits in the yard, making a point of sharpening his steel sword. “And Jaskier wants it to.”

“He wants you to ride off while he’s sick?” Geralt kneels down in front of the Witcher. “He needs us. Needs you.”

“I am the LAST thing he needs right now.” Lambert stands up. “I took him outside and I gave him a FUCKING siezure.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Oh, so the great White Wolf of Rivia is a healer as well now?” Lambert shakes his head. “You’ve got NO IDEA what caused that back there.”

“And neither have you.” Geralt shouts back. “So you don’t know that it was your fault.”

“Eskel said he shouldn’t have been in the cold.” Lambert spits, and sheaths his sword as he walks towards the stable. “Best thing I can do for Jaskier right now is kill that bastard he calls his father.” 

“You’re abandoning him…”

“I can’t help him here, Geralt.” Lambert shouts.

“He needs his family.”

“Yeah well, I’m not good at this family shit.”

“You think _I_ am.”

“You are when it’s him.” Lambert looks down. “You’re a different person around him.”

“So are you.” 

Lambert shakes his head. “I’m a bastard.”

“Bastard or not, it was you he asked for help, when he felt the seizure.”

“He only asked me because I was holding him.”

Geralt waits a moment, then speaks. “You were holding him.”

Lambert crosses his arms. 

“STILL think you’re not good at this family shit?” 

“He...guess that’s his magic power. Jas makes everyone around him a better person.”

“He sees the good in people. Even you.”

Lambert laughs under his breath.

“He sees the good in people, even if they can’t see it in themselves.” Geralt smiles. “And he brings that good out. Makes people laugh. Makes them sing. He falls in love with everyone he meets. Well, not quite everyone.”

“He told me that if he ever got a chance he was going to wish apoplexy on his classroom bully.”

“Suitably dramatic.”

They share a laugh.

“He sees the good in everyone.” Lambert sighs. “Except himself.”

“Maybe that’s why he does what he does.” The Witcher sits down on a bench, and after a moment Lambert joins him. “He knows how it feels to hate yourself. He doesn’t want others to feel the way he does.”

“What if he dies, Geralt?”

“Then he won’t be alone.” Geralt sighs. “I know it hurts, watching a friend die...but Jaskier can’t run away from this. We shouldn’t either.”

Lambert nods.

“And either way, when this is over, WE will go to Lettenhove. You and me, Eskel too if he wants to join us.”

“Think one human is going to take three witchers to kill him?”

“We’re not going to kill the bastard.” Geralt’s voice is cold. “We’re going to teach him a lesson.”

Lambert smiles, then looks down at his medallion, confused.

“Your one just start humming, too?” Geralt stands. 

There is a small explosion of power, forming into a yellow disk that picks up the dust of the ground into a cyclone. 

The dust tastes like cat piss, and Geralt covers his mouth with the back of his hand as he steps between the younger witcher and the portal, sword drawn. He hears Lambert draw his own as the portal fades around the hooded figure, who then looks up, noticing the weapons immediately. 

“Have I come at a bad time?”

“Merigold?” Lambert steps forward, sheathing the blade. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Lambert.” Triss smiles as she lowers her travelling hood. “I see my prayers that you fall into a rotfiend nest have remained unanswered.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” He looks at Geralt. “What is she doing here?”

Geralt shrugs as he sheaths his sword. 

Triss shrugs. “My powerful sorceress intuition told me that you needed a healer.”

A pause.

“Triss?” Geralt coaxes.

“I overheard a rumour.”

“Triss?” Both Witcher’s say together.

“Fine.” She breaks eye contact. “Jaskier wasn’t answering the xenovox I gave him, so…I got worried and...”

“And you scryed him.” Geralt says.

“Just to make sure he was alright.” 

Geralt and Lambert look at each other, and then back at Triss.

“Perhaps the discussion about my anxiety issues can wait for a better time.” Triss steps forward. “I’ve brought what supplies I could carry by portal. The vision didn’t give me much information.”

“Endrega venom.” Geralt says.

“ENDREGA?” The sorceress quickly collects herself, and lowers her voice. “Jaskier should be dead.”

“Wound wasn’t that deep, but enough venom got into his blood to still make him sick.”

“Or kill him slowly.” Triss nods. “I have things that MIGHT help, but…”

“Merigold?”

“As I said, he SHOULD be dead.” Triss shakes her head, swallowing.

“GERALT.” Eskel shouts from the tavern door. “It’s happening again.”

“What…” Triss quickly realises that she won’t be getting an answer, opting to instead follow the Witchers through to the small bedroom. 

Jaskier is laid on the bed, convulsing badly while Vesemir quickly arranges the pillows and blankets to cushion as much as possible. 

When the seizure passes, Jaskier collapses boneless against the mattress, eyes pressed tightly shut as he wraps his arms around himself. His trembling hands are balled into fists.

“I…” Jaskier can’t finish the sentence.

“It’s over, my boy.” Vesemir whispers quietly, rubbing the bard’s back. “It’s over.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Geralt rests a hand against Jaskier’s forehead.

“Triss?” Eskel says with surprise as he greets the sorceress.

Triss smiles back, already opening her supplies bag as she makes eye contact with Vesemir. “I need to examine him.”

The older Witcher nods, leading the others out one by one. 

All except Geralt, who doesn’t move. 

His eyes are fixed on the sorceress as she holds a hand over Jaskier’s chest, her own eyes closed with concentration.

“How many seizures has he had?”

“That was the second.” Geralt says. “First was maybe three hours ago.”

She nods, and they fall quiet while she works.

Geralt waits. 

“Well.” She finally says, opening her eyes. “Don’t think that my being here means that I’ve forgiven you for that song translation, Julian Pankratz.” She taps his nose. “What idiot gets the Elder words for black and red confused?”

Jaskier blinks drowsily, eyes fixed on the ceiling. It isn’t clear if he even heard the question.

“It could have been worse.” Geralt says, his hand sliding down to cup the side of Jaskier’s face.

Triss smirks. “Worse than half the elder speaking world now thinking that I have red hair?” 

Geralt shrugs. 

“Yes, I suppose it could have been worse.” She reaches for her bag, pulling out a potion bottle. “We spoke while he was in Skellige. He sounded really happy there. Part of me expected him to stay on the islands.”

Geralt nods, accepting the potion bottle as she passes it to him.

“This will help with the seizures. Six drops.”

The Witcher uncorks the potion, carefully tipping it drop by drop into Jaskier’s mouth. The bard swallows, and turns his head to the side.

“Sorry about the taste.” Triss whispers. 

“I’ll take him back there one day. Skellige”

“Why didn’t you go with him this time?”

“I wanted to.” Geralt sighs. “But, it’s been years since he left the college, and he’s been following me all that time. I wanted him to have something that was his own. His own experience. Let him walk his own path for a while, instead of mine.”

“And you couldn’t walk that path with him?”

“I...I didn’t consider it. I...”

“Don’t like giving up control?”

Geralt huffs, nodding after a moment.

“Did you miss him?”

“Thought I would welcome just me and Roach on the road again. But, the truth is...Truth is that while I don’t regret him going to Skellige, the road was too quiet without him.” Geralt looks down. “Can you help him?”

“Endrega venom is fast moving, and...unkind. Even a tiny amount, his being alive still is a miracle.” Triss shakes her head, taking hold of Jaskier’s hand. “At the moment, he is dying. He has a few days at most.”

“What can we do?”

Triss takes a deep breath.

“Triss. What can we do?”

“There is one thing.”

* * *

A chair lays broken at the end of the hallway where it had been thrown, serving as proof that Witchers do have feelings. 

Vesemir sits on the remaining chair, silent, eyes fixed at the wall. Eskel stands beside him, arms crossed, looking at the ceiling. 

Lambert is pacing, occasionally kicking the chair that he killed. 

Finally, the door to Jaskier’s room opens and Triss steps out.

Eskel speaks first. “So, what happens now?”

Triss looks at each Witcher in turn. “Poisoning is a common form of assassination in royal courts.” She says. “So some time ago, a friend of mine, Keira, started work to produce a form of the Golden Oriole potion that was safe for humans.”

“She tried to rewrite a centuries old Witcher potion?” Eskel says.

“Yes.”

Lambert whistles. “I like her already.”

Vesemir stands. “And you can make this potion, Triss?”

“I worked with Keira. I’m confident I can recreate her formula. But the treatment is still far from safe.” She folds her hands in front of her. “Jaskier is young and healthy, he has a good chance. But if it doesn’t work...”

“Then it’s a Witcher potion inside a human.” Vesemir closes his eyes.

“At least it gives him a chance.” Eskel says.

“What do you need from me, Merigold?”

“I have the right essences and spirits. I’ll need dandelion blowball.”

“Done.” Lambert is already leaving.

“Lambert, wait up.”

“It doesn’t need TWO people, Eskel.”

“I know.” The older witcher says as he follows him outside.

“And what do you need from me?” Vesemir says.

“Same as I need from Geralt.” Triss sighs. “Give our patient some reasons to fight.”

Without another word, Vesemir walks past her and into the room. 

* * *

Geralt sits quietly, one hand resting on Jaskier’s chest as they both listen to Vesemir.

“I stopped at a village, two months ago.” The old Witcher is saying, his voice quiet. “They had some sheep disappearing, blood left in the field. Probably wolves, but I decided to check anyway.”

Jaskier’s eyes are half lidded, blinking slowly as he listens.

“The Innkeeper greeted me at the door. ‘What name am I calling you, Master Witcher?’ he said. Time was, Julian, that I would never have been asked for my name. It was always just Witcher, if I was greeted at all. 

“But that innkeeper, he asked me my name, asked about the monsters I’d hunted. Did I need supplies? He invited me to play cards. He treated me like a person, as welcome in his inn as any other guest. And when I asked him, I found out that you had sung there a few weeks before.” Vesemir rests a hand on Jaskier’s forehead, stroking his hair back. “You did that for me. You are doing that for Witchers across these lands. Where people used to only see a heartless mutant, now they are starting to see the person. The hero fighting their monsters. You’ve made us the characters in our own stories.

“It’s slow, how could it not be. It will be years I am sure before Witchers are truly safe among humans. But you ARE changing things. Jaskier is changing how witchers are seen, how our family is seen. You are changing our world, and that makes you very precious to us. Do you understand?”

Jaskier nods, his eyes glassy as a single tear escapes.

“You were eighteen when we met. In Witcher years, you were a child.” Vesemir sighs. “I’m glad I met you so young, that I’ve had the chance to watch you grow. Become a man that I am proud to call a part of my family.” 

He helps the bard to sit up, wrapping his arms around him and bringing him against his chest as Jaskier starts to sob quietly.

Geralt watches from the other side of the bed, acknowledging Vesemir with a nod when their eyes meet.

* * *

Having found fresh water for the pitcher, Geralt’s returns to the room, but doesn’t go in straight away. 

Lambert is watching the sleeping bard, one hand draped over Jaskier’s own.

“You’re one of the only close friends I’ve ever let myself have. I’ve trusted you with secrets I haven’t even told Geralt. That might not make you special to the world, or to your bastard of a father. BUT it makes you special in my world. And without you, that world is going to be very different. Different in a bad way. So you better not let this thing kill you, you hear me?”

* * *

Eskel gently lifts the soup spoon to Jaskier’s lips, but the bard turns away. 

“Jas, come on.” Eskel lowers the spoon. “Triss said you need to eat. You’ll need your strength when the treatment is ready.”

His hand shaking, Jaskier reaches for the spoon. 

“You’ll get more on you than in you.” Geralt says, sitting behind Jaskier so that the bard can lean against him, the Witcher’s arm around his waist.

“Let me.” Eskel lifts the spoon, but Jaskier tries to take it from him again, causing the utensil and its contents to drop to the blanket. 

Jaskier turns away from Eskel, pressing his face into Geralt’s shoulder. 

Both Witcher’s make eye contact, reaching the same conclusion at the same time. 

_Are you so inept and lazy that you are completely incapable of making your own progress in life?_

“Geralt? Remember having to spoon feed me after that troll fight?”

“I remember you puking half of it back onto my shirt.” Geralt growls.

Eskel shakes his head. “You’re STILL angry?”

“It was my best shirt.”

Eskel takes hold of Jaskier’s hands, placing them either side of the bowl and helping him to lift. “That’s it.” Confident, the Witcher lets go of the bowl, letting Jaskier do the work now as the bard takes a few large sips of the soup.

Eskel smiles. “Soon as you're safe to travel, we’ll take you home.” 

Jaskier looks at him like he has just been burned, eyes wide, breathing hitching. The bowl’s contents would be all over his lap of Geralt hadn’t caught it.

“Jaskier? You don’t want to go...oh no, I mean Kaer Morhen. We’ll take you to Kaer Morhen. Not Lettenhove. We’d never take you somewhere you don’t want to go.”

Jaskier nods, even as his face falls. Instinctively, Geralt wraps both arms around the bard, pulling him tighter against his chest.

“We don’t have to call it home if you’re not comfortable with that word.” Eskel says. “Guessing ‘home’ doesn’t mean a happy place for you.” He rests a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “So Kaer Morhen it is. And we’ll go there. All of us. And we’ll take care of you while you recover. Let Vesemir parent you to death.” 

Jaskier smiles.

“And when you're back on your feet, me and Geralt can practice swords with you, to help you get your strength back. And don’t think we’ll go easy on you just because you’re a human.” Eskel pats his shoulder. “And in the afternoons, we’ll all sit and listen to Lambert and Triss throw insults at each other.”

Geralt laughs.

“Those two fight so much you’d think they were bickering siblings.” Eskel says.

Jaskier closes his eyes, leaning against Geralt.

* * *

Everyone takes up a place. 

Vesemir sits in a chair beside the bed. 

Lambert sits on the floor, his back by the closed door. 

Eskel sits cross legged on the end of the bed.

Geralt can’t think of the words he wants to say to Jaskier, in the silence that follows. 

No that’s not true. He is thinking of too many words. All wanting to be said at once, and all stopping each other from being spoken. 

So the witcher does the next best thing that he can do.

He presses a kiss to the bard’s hair, then adjusts the pillows behind him and leans back against the headboard, letting Jaskier curl up against his chest with his hand in Geralt’s. 

Laid like this, a gentle heartbeat beneath his ear, it doesn’t take long for the bard to fall asleep. And he is still sleeping in the witcher’s arms when there is a gentle knock at the door. 

Lambert stands, opening it slightly to look through, and then stepping aside to let Triss into the room. 

She is holding a potion bottle. 

“It’s ready.” She says, quietly. 

Vesemir stands. “Let him wake up on his own. Then we'll apply the treatment.”

Geralt closes his eyes, his arms tightening protectively around the sleeping bard.


	5. Fraeren’ca Bleidds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hugs* Thank you for reading / commenting / kudos-um-ing (?)

Having thrown the gut punch, the Butcher of Blaviken carries on walking away from Posada, glancing over his shoulder after a moment to see the bard standing and checking his lute.

The look on his face is one of utter resignation, but that isn’t what stops Geralt in his tracks.

What stops him is that as the bard stands back up, some bread falls from his pocket, bread that he desperately grabs from the dust covered ground, wiping at it with his hands.

The first time Geralt had seen the bard, the boy really...Geralt guesses seventeen or eighteen years old…the first time Geralt had seen the bard, he had been having that food thrown at him.

Was that ammunition now his meal for the day? 

Someone so young would not choose such a life? The bard’s fine clothing fits him too well to be stolen, so he had not been born poor.

A runaway? Or sent away?

The boy notices Geralt watching him, and his cheeks burn with shame. He drops the bread to the ground, kicking it into the rough. 

“I’m sorry.” He is saying. “I can see why you...I won’t call you that again. Butcher. I just...I’m sure I could be a worthy travel companion.” The _please_ is said by his eyes. “Give me a chance. I COULD sing of your deeds. Make you famous. Make you loved by everyone you meet. Please at least let me try.”

Geralt sighs and turns completely, taking a step towards the bard, who flinches and folds in slightly, an arm over his stomach. 

Geralt nods, his gaze apologetic as he extends his hand. “Geralt of Rivia.”

“I know...I...oh…” He accepts the handshake. “Julian. Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

“Julian. What’s your other name?”

“Other?”

“Bard’s have performing names?”

“Oh. I...I haven’t chosen it yet.” The boy shrugs and stops walking, looking down at the ground. “It was Dandelion for a while, but...”

“Dandelion.” Geralt huffs a laugh. “The flower?”

“Yes.” The bard smiles. “People like flowers. I like flowers.” 

The Witcher nods, and carries on walking.

Julian crosses his arms. “What’s your favourite flower?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Everyone has a favourite everything.” The bard runs up to walk beside him. “Think. What’s the first flower that comes into your head?”

“Dandelion.”

“Okay, we were on that subject. So, second flower.”

“Buttercup.”

“Um...no.” He shakes his head. “Third?”

Geralt stops and looks at him. 

“Third flower?”

Geralt huffs, and shrugs dismissively. “Jaskier.”

“Jaskier?” The bard squints. “Not heard of that one.”

“It’s rare.” Geralt says. “Favours rough terrain. You find them where no other flower will grow.” 

“Stretching out of the cracks in the hard dirt.” Julian’s hands widen as he speaks. “A lone beauty in the barren landscape.”

Geralt looks at him. 

“IS it a beautiful flower?” 

“Yes.” Geralt smirks. “And useful. It can substitute for some flowers in healing potions.”

“So, Jaskier can be life saving?” Julian has a sense of awe in his voice. “The life saving, beautiful, hardy little flower surviving in conditions that would kill most. Jaskier!” He as good as cheers the name. “I like it. Thank you.”

The Witcher keeps walking forward, allowing himself an amused smile when he hears the newly named bard continue to follow him.

“If we find the devil, you do as I say, _Jaskier_.” He speaks over his shoulder. “I tell you to run, then you run. I tell you to hide, you hide. You stay out of the way.”

Julian...Jaskier...nods, and rests a hand against Roach’s side. 

“And you NEVER touch Roach.”

He pulls his hand away as if the horse is burning it.

Shaking his head, Geralt pulls a flask from the saddle bag, throwing it at the bard. Jaskier opens it slowly, and the smell fills the air.

“Soup?”

“It’s onion.” Geralt says. “Eat it all.”

“Oh. Thank you.” The bard has barely finished speaking before he is sipping on the soup, smiling as he does so. His hands are warmed as much by the flask as his belly is by his first hot meal in days.

They walk on, and just like that, Geralt and Roach become Geralt, Roach and Jaskier.

And it feels right.

* * *

The room smells of death, but Jaskier is at least coherent, for the moment. 

“Geralt, if I…”

“You’re going to be fine.”

“Please.” Jaskier tightens his grip on the Witcher’s hand. “If I die. If this...don’t blame Triss.”

“I won’t.”

“And...my lute. Can you send my lute to Draig Bon-Dhu on Skellige. He...I let him borrow it for a song. He played it really well.”

“I will.”

“And the daggers are in my bag. Eskel’s is the steel one. Lambert...the blue gem, and Vesemir is…”

“Shhh. You need to keep your strength for the treatment.”

“Vesemir’s dagger is the one with the wolf carved into the blade.”

“I’ll remember.”

“And Triss...can you...my winter coat. When she borrowed it that time, it looked beautiful on her.”

“I’ll give it to her.”

“Geralt. Will you tell my father I died...fighting a monster? Protecting you. I know it's...maybe...maybe he’ll...” Jaskier closes his eyes. “He likes noble gestures.”

Geralt shakes his head. If these are Jaskier’s final thoughts, he doesn’t want them to be of his father.

“Lambert wants to kill him.” Jaskier sighs. “He told me about his own...No. I shouldn’t...sorry. He trusted me not to tell anyone else.”

Geralt nods, understanding. Seeing his chance to change the subject, he holds Jaskier’s hand. “You taught him that. Trust. Remember?”

Jaskier closes his eyes, and listens to Geralt's story...

Memory...

* * *

It is Jaskier’s first winter in Kaer Morhen, and Eskel has just thrown himself off the roof of the gate tower.

Lambert throws the quen shield, and Geralt the Aard telekinesis. The two signs combine to cushion the witcher’s fall. Vesemir throws a Yrden, and the field slows the final descent so that Eskel as good as floats the rest of the way to the ground.

“Very good.” Vesemir turns to Geralt. “Next.”

Eskel whispers something in Lambert’s ear, and they both glance at Jaskier quickly, before turning to watch Geralt’s climb.

Reaching the roof, Geralt jumps. 

Lambert throws the quen, then Eskel throws Aard. Then Lambert throws Aard. Then Eskell. And Geralt literally bounces up and down.

Jasker laughs from where he is sitting on the fence, and how good it feels to laugh like this. To smile without it being forced onto his face. 

And maybe the laughter from the eighteen year old is why Vesemir lets the antics go on for as long as he does.

“Enough.” He finally shouts, looking Geralt over as the amused Witcher regains his footing. Then he turns to Eskel. “Do you know the point of this exercise?”

“Strengthening our signs.”

“No. It is trust. A witcher is a lone hunter…”

Vesemir’s back is to Lambert, so he can’t see the Witcher mouthing along to the sentence, his eyes rolling.

Jaskier presses a hand to his mouth to stifle further laughter.

“...but even a lone hunter can use a helping hand sometimes, and when that time comes you need to know that you can trust your brothers. Your fellow witchers. Trust them to catch you when you fall.” He turns, and glares at Lambert, who freezes mid mimic before raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Sorry, Vesemir.” Eskel says, every inch the naughty schoolboy.

“Right. Julian, your turn.”

“I...uh...what?”

“Up onto the roof with you.” Vesemir says, before turning to the three Witchers. “And YOU will behave yourselves this time. Remember, he is a human boy, not a witcher.”

All three nod, before smiling at Jaskier.

Jaskier’s eyes seem larger than his head as he mutely makes his way to the ladder, looking over his shoulder at Vesemir, who nods encouragingly.

“There is no need for worry. I assure you. This exercise is perfectly safe.”

Stopping on the ladder, Jaskier nods, before continuing his terribly slow climb. It seems like an hour before he reaches the top and stands on the edge.

“Be ready.” Vesemir shouts. “Lambert with Quen, Eskel with Aard, and Geralt with the Yrden.”

All three Witcher’s nod, taking their position and looking up at Jaskier, who is currently standing so still that he could easily be part of the stone wall on either side of him. Geralt’s witcher senses focus on the bard, his rapid heartbeat and shallow breathing, the rustling sound as his fingers fidget against the sweaty palms of his hands.

“Julian, you are perfectly safe.” Vesemir calls up. “This is one exercise where no Witcher has ever died.”

“Is that supposed to sound reassuring.” Geralt argues. 

“Come on, kid.” Eskel calls up. “We’ll catch you.”

Jaskier’s eyes are closed, and he is as pale as snow as he ‘looks’ up at the sky. He takes a step towards the edge, and then freezes again, a small whimper escaping him.

“Too soon.” Vesemir says under his breath, sighing. “I’m sorry, Julian. Climb back down.”

If anything, that makes Jaskier’s distress increase, as if the idea of failure is a worse prospect than smashing his skull open on the hard ground. He’s now petrified where he stands, even his breathing seems to have stopped.

“Fuck.” Geralt shakes his head, and starts making his way up the ladder. 

Jaskier’s reaction is immediate. He falls backwards onto the roof, scurrying away from the edge and pulling his knees to his chest.

“No please no please no please.”

“It’s alright.” Geralt says as he reaches the top. “Come here.”

Jaskier shakes his head.

“Come on, stand up.” Geralt’s voice is gentle, as if he is talking to a skittish animal. “It’s fine. I won’t hurt you.”

Jaskier slowly stands, before rushing at Geralt and gripping him so tightly that it hurts, although the Witcher says nothing. 

“Stand with your back against my chest.”

“Geralt?”

“Shh. You’re not the first. Lambert could never jump unless his friend Voltehre was with him. After the kid died, we couldn’t even get Lambert to climb the ladder. We stopped trying in the end.” 

Jaskier nods.

“Putting your trust in someone, it can be terrifying. I understand.”

Jaskier is trembling in his arms, but he stands with his back against Geralt, arms wrapping over the Witcher’s as they, in turn, embrace him.

“I...I trust you.” Jaskier closes his eyes, focusing on the Witcher’s voice.

“That is my family down there, Jaskier. I trust them with my life, and with yours. They will catch you, I promise. We will always catch you. Three...two...don’t stop breathing. That’s it. Three...two...one...go.” And he slowly lets himself tip over the edge, Jaskier held against his chest.

Lambert throws the quen, Eskel the aard, and Vesemir the Yrden. The fall is slow, graceful almost, Geralt landing on his back with Jaskier still cushioned against him. 

There are two more jumps like that one. 

On the third, Jaskier climbs up the tower by himself. There he closes his eyes, and cries out as he lets himself fall.

“Very good.” Vesemir smiles as he pats the bard on the shoulder afterwards. “Very good indeed.” 

Jaskier is trembling, but also smiling as he listens to the praise from the fatherly man.

He looks proud. So proud.

“Right, that’s enough games I think for today.” Vesemir crosses his arms. “Eskel, you mentioned wanting to practice on the pendulums?”

“I was hoping you would talk me through the basics again. Been a while.”

“Of course. Geralt?”

“As long as you’re not planning to make Jaskier do them.”

“No. He can observe this...where is he?”

Eskel looks left and right. “Lambert’s gone too.”

And they all look as one to see that the bard now stood with the youngest of the witchers at the top of the tower. 

Jaskier waves down at them, and a dumbfounded Eskel waves back.

“Geralt.” Vesemir says, a smile in his voice. “Aard. Eskel, Yrden. I will cast Quen.”

Jaskier says something to Lambert, and the Witcher turns so that his back is to the yard, his arms open to a T shape.

With one final nod at Jaskier, he squeezes his eyes shut, and falls alone for the first time.

The Witchers catch him, and then after a moment they catch Jaskier again. 

* * *

“Always wondered what you said to finally get him up there.”

“I said we believed in him.” Jaskier coughs, and grips Geralt’s hand. “I believe in you, too. Geralt of Rivia. Always will.”

Geralt tilts his head down, letting out a long breath. 

“I love you.” Jaskier says.

Geralt looks back up. 

The bard smiles. “I’ve always loved you.

Geralt leans forward, kissing the bard’s forehead, before sitting back with his hand rested against the side of Jaskier’s face. “I…I…”

“Shhh.” Jaskier soothes. “You don’t have to say it. In fact, I don’t want you to. First time you say those words, it has to be to HER. Whoever she is.”

Geralt shakes his head, and swallows. “You are my...dear friend.”

Jaskier smiles, a tear on his cheek. “So it takes me dying for you to call me your friend.”

“I…”

“I’m joking.” He laughs under his breath. “I understand. It’s...it’s not easy. Putting your trust in someone, it can be terrifying. Especially when it is your heart. I'm not expecting you to break a seventy year old habit in seven.”

Geralt looks away. “You’ve always trusted me.”

“Yeah...well. I’m an idiot.”

Geralt laughs. He doesn’t even know why. How is any of this...

“Tell Triss I’m ready.”

“Jaskier?”

“Geralt. I’m ready.”

Geralt nods, giving Jaskier’s hand one last tight squeeze, before standing. “Do you want the other witchers in here too?”

“Please.”

Geralt nods, and goes to the door. 

* * *

Triss uncorks the potion bottle, handing it to Geralt while she addresses the bard. “You’ll need to drink the entire bottle.”

“What will happen?”

“The potion will force the toxin to leave you. It...won’t be pleasant.”

“You surprise me, dear heart.” Jaskier smiles, sat up against a mountain of pillows, his pale face drenched in sweat, eyes shining. He looks so young, sat like that. A tiny child sick with a summer cold.

Jaskier looks at everyone in turn, giving each their own smile, before tilting his head back so that Geralt can feed him the potion.

A moment later, Jaskier frowns. “Bit of an anticlimax.”

Then he cries out, and convulses. 

The scream ripping its way out of his throat sounds more like a wounded animal than a human. When his eyes open again, they are black, as black as the darkened veins stretching their way across Jaskier’s face. His arms. His hands.

“Oesi, Caefyn.” Triss is whispering, her hand glowing with the light of the stabilizing spell. 

Another convulsion, and this time the scream is gargled, like a man screaming in water. 

Black tar bubbles at the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, and Geralt turns him onto his side so that he can vomit the substance, screaming when his breath allows, convulsing again.

The black lines cover every inch of him, and Geralt can almost see the toxin moving along them. 

After a moment, Jaskier fights off Geralt’s hands, and kicks back, punches, and then...he collapses against the bed and is still. Silent. 

So still. And so silent.

The room smells of death.

And then...Jaskier takes a breath.

The tension in the room evaporates. Triss collapses, sitting on the bed with Eskel beside her. Vesemir falls back into his chair, for once looking every single year of his centuries as he leans forward with his hand against Jaskier’s forehead.

Lambert grabs Jaskier’s hand, holding it under his own as he processes. 

Geralt’s hand is still against the bard’s chest, feeling the quiet heartbeat beneath it. 

“Ge..lt. Vesm...”

He looks round as Jaskier slowly opens his eyes, their normal colour again, looking from Geralt to Vesemir, and squinting. “Hurts.”

“I know, my boy.” Vesemir sooths. “It will fade. It’s over. It’s all over now. We’re all here with you. Just lie still.”

Triss stands, her hand held out as she scans the bard, and Jaskier sighs as some magic passes through him, reducing his pain.

“The toxin is gone. That’s it.” She points at the tar on the ground.

“Triss.” Jaskier looks around the room. “Eskel.”

The witcher nods. “Well done, Jaskier.”

“Bert.”

Lambert groans. “Not in front of Geralt, remember.”

Jaskier smiles. 

Geralt dares not move his hand from Jaskier’s chest, even as Triss scans over it. A rare anxiety has gripped him, as if his hand there is what is keeping Jaskier’s heart going at the moment. He can’t move it now or ever. 

With his other hand, he strokes fingers through the bard’s hair.

“Vesemir is right.” The sorceress says. “You’re going to be fine now, Fraeren’ca Bleidds.”

Jaskier slips into a healing sleep, and the room doesn’t smell of death anymore.

He’s going to live. Jaskier. Julian. Jas. Bard.

Geralt smiles.

Fraeren’ca Bleidds.

 _The little brother of the Wolves_.


	6. Home

He has been Jaskier for five months. A new name, and a fresh start. 

Geralt doesn’t know his past, so it doesn’t have to be who he is anymore. Jaskier is whoever Julian wants to be now. Happy. Positive. Strong. Useful. Successful. 

A valued friend.

Loved.

Wanted.

Someone to be proud of.

It doesn’t work out like that. 

Yesterday, Jaskier had been too sick to carry on pretending that he wasn’t Julian anymore. He was worn down, his limbs turned to rocks and his mind to a fog.

Today, Jaskier wakes slowly, although his eyes don’t open, instead tightening as his whole body tenses, trembling in the bedroll.

He has to get up now, and he wants to, he really wants to. 

But Jaskier won’t move. 

He has to. Geralt indulged him yesterday with ribleaf tea and a safe camp and he even gave him a hug, holding him close and rocking him. He thinks he fell asleep like that. Surely time moved too quickly for Jaskier to have been awake the entire afternoon.

He’s had hugs before. Fleeting things. Quick hellos. Congratulations after a good performance. 

But to be HELD. Rocked. Comforted and protected. Allowed to just sit and rest in stillness for hours, listening to a heartbeat and a softly whispered voice. That had been new.

He already misses it. 

But while Geralt may have indulged him yesterday, Jaskier knows that they need to get back on the road today. The Witcher needs to find more contracts. 

But Jaskier can’t move.

He has to move. Geralt indulged him yesterday. Today he might lose his patience. He might leave Jaskier behind. 

But Jaskier doesn’t move.

 _Stop it._ He says to himself with his father’s voice. _Do you know how many people in this world would kill to be a viscount's son? To never want for food or shelter? You live a good life, boy. This sadness is nothing but selfish. What would your mother think if she was here..._

He has the perfect opportunity again. A witcher. An adventure. And he...he’s throwing it away!

He turns over, and opens his eyes. 

The witcher and Roach are both gone.

And that should make Jaskier move. It should make him jump up. It should make him find the tracks and race after the witcher. It should make him angry. It should make him scream. 

He closes his eyes again, turning his face into the bedroll. 

Jaskier doesn’t move. 

It has happened. He knew it was going to happen. 

He’s an inconvenience. Geralt has left him behind.

Eventually, everyone leaves him behind.

He’s in the middle of the forest and Jaskier, now Julian again, doesn’t care if he dies there. 

He curls up tighter, his hands folding beneath his chin, and...wait?

Julian’s eyes open, but he doesn’t look down straight away as he feels. As he feels a thick silver chain. A silver chain that is surprisingly warm. He follows the chain down to the circle, feeling over the raised bumps of the wolf shape that he already knows so well. Warm like the chain.

He tilts his head, looking at the medallion in his trembling hand. 

In five months, five months that already feel like a lifetime, he has never seen Geralt take the medallion off. He keeps it even when he strips to bathe. He cleans it first after fights and sometimes he holds it when he settles in to sleep.

The medallion is loved by Geralt. 

He wouldn’t just leave it behind! 

He wouldn’t just give it to Julian...to Jaskier...and then walk away.

Is Geralt coming back for it?

As he comes out of the haze, Jaskier notices for the first time that two branches have been forced into the ground, one just in front of his head and one in front of his feet. A blanket hangs over them, falling behind him to form a tent of sorts.The saddle bags have also been packed in above and below him, forming a side wall of some sort. All of the supplies. Geralt will come back for those as well.

And there’s the bard’s notebook, opened to the final page, words written in a well trained hand. 

**_I am hunting for food_ **

**_STAY IN THE TENT_ **

**_I am wearing Quen. The Medallion will hum when I am near_ **

Jaskier brushes a finger over the words as he gently closes his other hand around the medallion, feeling the warm tingle against his palm.

After a while, the medallion starts humming. 

Geralt is coming back for him. 

When Jaskier wakes again he can smell meat cooking over a fire, and Roach is chewing on some grass and foliage nearby. 

Geralt is sat by the cooking fire, tending to the meat. 

“You’re back.” Jaskier mumbles.

Geralt doesn’t look round. “Found rabbits.” He indicates the meat with a nod.

Jaskier looks from Geralt to the medallion, and the Witcher hums

“If it starts to vibrate, yell.”

Jaskier nods. 

The bard spends the entire day and night inside the safety of the tent sanctuary that Geralt has built for him. 

At the start, he sits up slightly and chews on rabbit meat and bread while watching Geralt tend to Roach. Then he sits and watches Geralt make oils for his sword, the Witcher patiently describing the process and how the ingredients work for each one. Which monsters they will help fight.

Later, Geralt is gently tapping his shoulder. “Don’t sleep sat up, Bard. You’ll hurt your neck.”

Jaskier lays on his side and watches while Geralt meditates.

 _If it starts to vibrate, yell_.

He listens to the medallion around his neck, and as he does so he feels like he is watching over Geralt and Roach. Protecting them while Geralt meditates. And he feels like Geralt is trusting him to do this?

Jaskier is determined. He won’t let Geralt down. Won’t betray his trust. 

He is a worthy travelling companion. And he is ready to warn the witcher if magical danger draws near.

It’s a small thing, but it is a _useful_ thing. Jaskier is being useful. He is helping Geralt. And despite everything that is weighing him down, that small thing makes him smile.

He feels stronger.

Later, Geralt comes out of the meditation, and crawls into the tent. He sits down, moving Jaskier so that the bard’s head is in his lap. Once Jaskier is settled, Geralt carefully takes the medallion back, putting it back around his own neck.

Jaskier sleeps through the night, secure in the knowledge that Geralt won’t leave. Because Jaskier is trusted. And he is useful.

He is wanted. 

* * *

He has been Jaskier for seven years, but he has also been Julian. 

There is a hand on his forehead. Another hand holding his own. 

“Shhh. It’s alright Julian. You don’t have to wake up if you are not ready. You can go back to sleep.”

Jaskier blinks, looking around the otherwise empty room, then at Vesemir.

“Triss is asleep next door.” Vesemir says. “The others have gone into Novigrad. They’ll be back soon.”

Jaskier nods, his voice having left him for a moment. He lays back, eyes on the ceiling.

“Well, seeing as you're awake, and we’re alone, there is something I want to discuss with you.”

Jaskier feels cold, and maybe he shivers because Vesemir pulls the blanket up.

“We know about the letter your father sent you.”

Jaskier closes his eyes, turning his face away from Vesemir. 

“I’m sorry, Julian. You don’t deserve to be told the things your father said. You’re not a parasite. Yes, Geralt’s friendship with the Skellige Druid helped get the invitation to you, but it was your own reputation, YOUR hard work that earned you that honour. There are a lot of words I can use to describe you Julian, not ALL of them kind.” Vesemir chuckles. “But lazy. Inept. Those are certainly not ones I would choose.”

Jaskier nods, slowly turning to face him again.

“And as for ‘singing in backwater taverns’. Well, you remember me telling you about the Innkeeper? The changes you are making for Witchers?”

Jaskier nods again.

“Now, tell me how your cousin brown-nosing kings is making the world a better place?”

Jaskier doesn’t have his voice back yet. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a gentle mixture of a laugh and a sob.

“In all our conversations, you’ve never spoken of your family. Now I understand why.”

Jaskier shakes his head, but Vesemir hushes him, stilling the movement with the tips of his finger’s against the bard’s brow. A tear sneaks down Jaskier’s face, and he reaches to angrily swipe at it before Vesemir takes his hand, holding it firmly.

“There are those who would call how we raised Witchers...how I raised Witchers...abuse. And they would be right, I think. Our world is harsh, they had to learn to survive harshness. But they also learned to band together, to trust each other, to fight side by side. Encourage. Believe.” He looks back at the bard. “There were Witcher’s who died in the trials. BUT no Witcher ever went into any trial not feeling ready. That was my strongest rule. Every trial, every candidate, they went only when they were convinced that they would succeed. When they asked to participate, and could go knowing that their fellow Witchers...that _I_...believed in them.” Vesemir looks down. “That is the least that any parent should do for their child. Encourage and believe in them. Help them to become stronger than even they know they can be. I am sorry that you didn’t have that growing up, Julian. But...at least you have it now. You have that family now.”

Jaskier looks at him, his expression blank. 

“You need it proven to you. That I can do.” The Witcher nods. “I have something for you. The others felt it would mean more to you if it came from me.” He reaches into his pocket. “Technically a break of the rules, but who's going to say anything? Besides, if becoming the first known human on the Continent to survive Endrega Venom AND Golden Oriole doesn’t qualify as a Trial of the Grasses, then tell me what does?” And he holds up a medallion. 

Jaskier blinks, one shaky hand reaching up to touch the medallion before Vesemir puts it round his neck, tidying the chain and leaving it to settle against the bard’s chest, on top of the blankets. 

“Now, it isn’t active. The...the young Witcher that it belonged to didn’t complete his final trial.”

“Voltehre?” Jaskier whispers. “Lambert’s friend?”

Vesemir nods. “It is a valuable symbol. It means you truly belong to us. To the Wolf school. The truth is that you always have, but...I know how important facts can be when your mind attacks you. And THIS is a fact, my boy.” He taps the medallion. “This is YOUR medallion now. And you have earned it. Passed your trial and survived. Do you understand?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond, but his large, hopeful eyes say everything.

“When you feel lost, you look at this medallion. And you remember that you belong to us.”

Jaskier smiles, but then his face falls. “But I’m not a Witcher?” He flinches at how weak his voice sounds.

“Well you’re certainly as strong as one.”

The bard chuckles dismissively.

“Stop it.” Vesemir says, harshly. “Do you think Witchers just get up and walk around the day after their trials?” He leans forward, his voice lower. “I had to practically carry Geralt to the washroom and back after his trial.”

Vesemir sits back up. “Now. No one is expecting you to bounce back from this. And we know that it may yet hurt you further.” He gently taps Jaskier’s forehead. “You’ve been through an ordeal, you need to take the time to recover physically and mentally. We will take care of you while you do. Love you.” He smiles, and then hands out the letter. “Your family is the wolf school. You are OURS. And we believe in you. _I_ believe in you. And so does Geralt. I hope that, in time, with our help, you will learn to believe in yourself. See yourself through our eyes, instead of your father’s”

Jaskier takes the letter, holding it in both hands. He looks at Vesemir, nods, and then tears the parchment in half, and half again.

“Good boy.” Vesemir says.

* * *

When Jaskier next wakes, he is curled onto his side, and he is not alone on the bed. 

Geralt is laid on the blanket, an arm tucked under his head, fast asleep. His other arm is draped over Jaskier, protectively. 

“Geralt?”

No answer. The Witcher is deeply asleep. 

Smiling, Jaskier kisses two of his fingers, before gently placing them against Geralt’s lips. For the longest time afterwards he lays there, watching the Witcher sleep, his hand carefully wrapped around his new medallion. 

He watches over Geralt.

* * *

“Ouch!” Lambert flinches back. “Bastard bit me.”

“Good boy, Scorpion.” Triss cooes, patting the horses side as Lambert finishes putting the bridle on. “Very good boy. Extra carrots for you.”

Lambert glares at her, and goes to put the saddle on. “Eskel, your horse is a bastard.”

“Takes one to know one.” Eskel shouts back as he finishes packing the saddle bags.

Vesemir, who is watching all of this from the stable entrance, crosses his arms. “Am I going to have to contend with you bickering on the road.”

“Yes.” All three say at the same time.

“This is why I miss Remus.” Vesemir sighs. “HE was silent.”

Triss swallows, looking down and brushing some imaginary dust off of her riding trousers. 

“Now, Triss, none of that young lady.” The old Witcher places a hand on her arm. “You were right in what you did. Had you told the truth, the resulting panic about the Striga could have had lasting repercussions.”

Triss nods, smiling.

“Besides, that old guy was an ass.”

“LAMBERT!”

“Well he WAS.”

Triss chuckles, and the old Witcher smiles at her, before turning to the tavern entrance as it opens, Geralt stepping out with Jaskier leant against him and taking each slow and clearly painful step one at a time.

“He insisted.” Geralt says when Vesemir opens his mouth to question making Jaskier walk to the stable. 

The bard, meanwhile, has let go of Geralt to stumble over to Roach, running his hand through her mane. “Hello, old girl.” 

Vesemir smiles as he notices that Jaskier’s other hand is fidgeting with the medallion chain. Both hands fall to Jaskier’s side as Geralt lifts him up onto Roach’s saddle, before climbing up in front of him and encouraging the bard to rest against his back. “Secure?”

Jaskier nods, eyes falling closed. 

Patting Lambert on the shoulder in thanks for preparing his horse, Eskel fixes the saddle bags to Scorpion, and climbs into the saddle before reaching down for Triss. “M’Lady.” 

Pulling the sorceress up behind him, he follows Geralt out into the yard, shortly followed by Lambert and Vesemir on their horses. 

“Looking forward to seeing Kaer Morhen again, Jas?” Eskel says.

“Can we swing by Lettenhove on the way?” Lambert calls.

“No.” Vesemir says.

Geralt chuckles, before turning to the younger Witcher and winking, which earns him a rare genuine smile from Lambert.

Vesemir encourages his horse forward. “Let’s go home.”

“Um…” Eskel starts, but Jaskier just smiles. 

He is going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3 <3 <3


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